igestion being
quite all right, thank heaven! Gradually the impression faded. I was
just dropping to sleep again, when I heard the faintest imaginable
footfall, almost as if somebody were walking upon the air itself.
And then, Miss Smith, there stole across my room a figure. There was
nothing terrifying about it: it was merely a figure, that was all,
and so I was not frightened. It came from my clothes-closet, went
into the next room, and vanished. For when I arose and followed,
there was no trace of it. And the doors were locked. Now, was not
that remarkable?"

"Very," said I, with dry lips.

"I should have thought I was dreaming," went on Miss Emmeline, "save
that there lingered in the air, for some time, a faint and very
delicate--"

"Perfume," I finished.

Miss Emmeline started, and seized my hand.

"Then you have experienced it, too?"

"I have detected the perfume," I admitted, "but I have never seen
anything. Dear Miss Emmeline, would it be too much to ask you to
keep this to yourself, for a while at least? People are so easily
frightened; and wild stories spread and grow."

Miss Emmeline nodded. "Of course I'll keep it quiet," she promised
kindly. "I shall, however, write down the occurrence for the Society
for Psychical Research, without giving actual names and place." To
this I raised no objection. But it was with a troubled mind that I
left Miss Emmeline.

I was destined to hear one more confidence that night, unwittingly
this time. I had gone down-stairs to place, ready to Mary Magdalen's
hand in the morning, the materials for the breakfast. This entails
work, but it insures successful handling of household economics.
Having weighed and measured what was necessary, and seen that the
inquisitive Black family occupied their proper quarters on the lower
veranda, I went back up-stairs. The Author's door was slightly ajar,
and I could hear him walking up and down, as he does when he
dictates; for he is a restless man.

"Johnson," The Author was saying as I passed, my slippered feet
making no sound, "Johnson, that Sophy woman intrigues me. Hanged if
she doesn't, Johnson!"

"I like Miss Smith, myself. She reminds me very much of my mother,"
said Johnson's cordial voice in reply.

"But I don't like the way things look here, at all, Johnson!" fumed
The Author. "What's his game, anyhow? What's he after? What's he
here for? Does she know, or suspect? Or doesn't she, Johnson?" The
Author asked, earnestly